


Alternate Accommodations

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, ratings/tags may change as time goes on u know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the middle of January and the power outage killed you heater. You can barely afford the place as it is, now you have to pay to get that damned thing repaired? That's bullshit--and your neighbor knows it. </p>
<p>In which Dave's too Texan to handle the cold, John's too nice without really thinking first, Rose's too fuck-does-she-know-she-totally-knows, and Jade's too out of it to really understand what's happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternate Accommodations

**Author's Note:**

> ahah i dont really know what this is??? like i remembered this time when my heating died and we had to stay at the neighbors' for the night and then i was like 'omg what if davejohn' and thats what happened honest i didnt mean for a fic ok it just kind of happened

            Okay, you like to keep your window open and all, but this is a little too far.

            You wake up with goosebumps coating every square inch of your skin, above the blankets or under them. You’re cold as fuck and you can’t figure out why. If you hadn’t forgotten before lying down (and you’re sure you hadn’t) then your heated blanket should be on its highest setting. There’s like, seven blankets on top of that one, and you’re still frigid. Opening your eyes sounds like it’ll just force you awake when you really don’t want to be, but it’s better than shivering while frigid air cocoons itself around you. Rolling to the side, you see the controller isn’t on, not even lit up. The buttons aren’t even red and blue.

            Fuck.

            You prop yourself up on your elbow, peering across the room at your turntables. No lights at all, blinking or otherwise. The wind whistles harshly as it passes over the gap of your window, and you shiver. The weight of your blankets is soothing, and you’re sure that the power will come back on in a little while, but _there’s got to be some spare blanket somewhere._ There could, if you’re lucky, be one in the main room, on the back of that old, worn leather resale couch, but maybe that’s the third one up on your stack you have here. The maybe is enough to get you on your feet, and you yelp as your feet touch the really, _seriously cold_ hardwood floor. It’s like one of those baths you’d take as a kid, with the too-hot water, sticking your toes in and pulling back in shock, tingles spiking up to your knee. Yeah, you pull back in shock all right—you leap back, shoving yourself on the mattress until you’re up against the wall behind you. Perhaps you should venture for some socks before leaving the room.

            Now there are blankets all over the floor, covering the cold until you grab one sock, two socks. Even as you heap them back onto the bed and hop around for a while, you still feel the chill through the fuzzy fabric and yes, you do have those really thick furry socks, but it’s Washington for God’s sake and you’re a born-and-raised Texan.

            You skip out the doorway of the bedroom, your seemingly chipper actions nowhere near your actual mindset. You just want to go back to sleep, god damn it, not hunt for a quilt. However, there’re no covers to be found, and it’s even colder out here where the windows _aren’t_ open. That doesn’t even make any sense. Blindly, you reach out and run your hand up and down the wall in an attempt to find the light switch. Flicking it on does nothing. This is _so_ uncool (you know it is actually quite the opposite, but you’re not going to ponder reverse puns at this moment. You do make a mental note to give it a well-deserved chuckle later, though).

            As you pass your kitchen, you get a glimpse out the window and see your super-hot neighbor in his own kitchen, digging through his refrigerator.

            His refrigerator.

            Which is on.

            So is the kitchen light.

            _That bastard has power!_

Without really thinking, you dash back to your bedroom and throw some jeans and a sweater, the warmest you have, and tug on your sneakers. On your way out, you slam the window closed and lock it. At the front door, you brace yourself, then dart out of the house and close the door as quickly as you can, fingers already shaking as you turn the key and lock it and

            holy

            fucking

            shit

            it’s cold out. Really cold. ‘Cold’ doesn’t even fit. It’s freezing, it’s Siberian, it’s subzero, it’s arctic, it’s bone-chilling, it’s _really motherfucking cold._ You’re honestly scared your blood is going to freeze as you scurry across the lawn to the neighbor’s house. The snow bites through your shoes and your socks and you’re kind of nervous you’re going to have to cut off your feet when you get inside. When you knock on the door, it may have been a little too hard, because your knuckles feel like they’re going to snap right off. You wouldn’t be surprised if the skin was blue and gray or if your fingers cracked like twigs. Actually, that’s pretty gruesome, and you’re going to stop thinking about that now because he’s answering the door.

            Two windows and about twenty feet between doesn’t do him any justice.

            He’s in navy sweatpants and a white wifebeater, no shoes. An unruly mop of black hair tops his head, and his glasses are slightly askew. His figure is lean and tall and kind of bony, but holy shit _,_ if you weren’t already gay you would be now. His eyes are sleepy as they skim you head to foot, and then they lock on your face and he laughs a little.

            “You look cold, man,” he says, grin still in place. You shift on your feet. The house is warm, you can feel the heat even from out here, and you try your hardest not to peer over his shoulder.

            “Uh, yeah,” you say. “I am. My power went out and the heat’s dead.”

            His expression softens into one of pity. He looks you over again (you’ve been out way too long and you can’t feel your ears), then gives a small nod. “Come in, then. You should probably spend the rest of the night here.”

            The moment he moves to step aside, you hurry past him and spin on your heel, rubbing your arms and glaring at the door as he closes it. It’s as warm as you thought it’d be and you want to stand and bask in it, but Neighbor Guy is walking toward you again and smiling. He extends a hand. “I’m John Egbert.”

            Had you not lost sensation in your nose about thirty seconds ago, you’d snort. What kind of last name is Egbert? You grasp his hand with your own and he actually blinks in shock. The smile you cast him is apologetic. “Dave Strider,” you reply, shaking his hand once and releasing it. “I’m sorry to intrude.”

            “Don’t worry about it!” he says cheerfully. “Do you mind the couch? I haven’t got a spare room.” He’s moving away now, toward the furniture piece in question, and he grabs a blanket from the back of it and tosses it over the cushions long-ways. “If your power is still out in the morning, you can stay and have breakfast or something. I’ve got a generator, so I’m okay, but I don’t buy food for two so I’m really sorry if I don’t have something you like!”

            You find yourself nodding. He talks a lot, but that’s just fine with you. Well, it’s kind of foreign, having grown up with a brother who talked less the older you got, but this is cool. Talkative people are cool. Usually.

            John finishes his rambling with a remorseful, “Oh, I’m babbling, aren’t I?” and he offers you some hot chocolate. You politely decline. He smiles at you again and then tells you that he’ll be in his room if you need him. You thank him and wait for his heels to disappear through a doorway before stripping off your sweater (apparently this guy likes it warm as you do) and tucking yourself under the blanket. You try to ignore the side of your head that’s giving you notions like going in there and kissing the hell out of John Egbert.

+•+

            The moment you’d retreated to your room you called Rose.

            “John,” she grumbles, irritated that you’d awoken her. “You do know that it’s 2:39am, don’t you?”

            “He came over, Rose, he’s on my couch,” you tell her, whispering though you know he wouldn’t be able to discern what you’re saying anyway.

            There’s a pause, and then a chuckle. “Your neighbor, you mean? The blonde one with the accent and the shades?”

            “Don’t remind me of his accent,” you groan, falling back onto the pillow. You’ve heard him on his phone when you’re in your yard; he likes to keep his bedroom window open and that Southern drawl is enough to leave a tight feeling in your pants.

            “So this is the guy you don’t know who turns you on,” Rose clarifies. Damn her. She’s doing this on purpose and you know it.

            You tell her to shut up. She asks what he’s doing on your couch.

            “His power died,” you explain, thanking all entities for your generator. “Since he was cold, he came over here.”

            “He doesn’t know you either though, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “He just came over? Showed up on your doorstep?”

            “Uh-huh.” With his usually perfect hair mussed and tousled from sleep, with cheeks so pink there could be a Crayola crayon color called _Dave Strider’s Cold Blush,_ with twisted jeans snug in all the right places, with a sweater that flaunted his collarbones. Then he shook your hand, grasping it tightly and it felt so much like you imagined it would you had blinked in actual shock. “Now he’s just… on my couch. Sleeping. And stuff.”

            The moment the last two words leave your lips you want to slap yourself. Her smile is evident in her tone as Rose repeats, “And stuff? Well, John, what are you expecting of your guest? I don’t think he’d have such a lack of manners that he’d—”

            “Don’t go there,” you warn her, glancing at the closed door anxiously. “Rose, this is a big deal. What am I supposed to make for breakfast?! I don’t even know what he likes! What do you think he’d like? Or like, what if his power is back in the morning and he’s gone when I wake up? What if—”

            “This isn’t a one-night stand, John,” Rose reminds you calmly. “He’s spending the night on your couch. You’ll be fine. Make him pancakes or something. Relax; be friendly. That can’t be hard for you, seeing as you always are. Goodnight, John.” She hangs up.

            You lie in bed thinking about the way he speaks his _–er_ words more like soft _–uh_ s and you don’t end up sleeping until it’s half past three.

+-+

            When you wake up it’s almost eight and you leap to your feet. You’re certain Dave will be gone already. You can’t believe you slept in. You were going to get up early to cook something. As you rush out of the room to the main room, you hear a quiet, muffled groan. Shit. Shit. _Shit._ You are so absolutely fucked and you know it the moment you see him sit up, shoulders bare. You’re going to be a stuttering mess. Hopefully he won’t notice how uncomfortable it is for you to walk as you hurry behind him into the kitchen, your socked feet silent on the carpet floor. You grab and apple and take a bite just as he walks in, rubbing his eye.

            He’s in his jeans and some thick socks and nothing else.

            The apple going down your throat threatens to lodge itself halfway until you force it back. “Good morning,” you say. Did your voice crack? You’re sure your voice cracked, but he doesn’t say anything.

            Dave drops his hand and looks up. He’s a few inches shorter than you. His eyes are an unnatural shade of red, and they remind you of Rose’s in a way. “Mornin’,” he answers, gaze travelling around your kitchen. “Thanks for letting me stay the night. I woulda froze in there. People’d come to visit and see one big Davesicle. They’d wonder what happened. You’d be left the only one knowing that you left me to freeze to death.” He winks, to let you know he’s kidding, and your knees weaken. 

            “It’s, uh, it was nothing!” you choke out, forcing a grin. “Really! I’m glad you came, I mean, I got to meet you and all!”

            “What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. I was planning on introducing myself sometime this week. Just been busy moving in and stuff, I guess.” He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, and _oh Jesus you think he’s blushing yes pale skin is definitely turning red holy shit that’s hotter than it’s supposed to be._

            “It’s fine!” You’re too chipper; tone it down a little. “It’s fine. I totally understand. It’s cool that you put thought into that sort of thing at all.”

            Dave smiles and thanks you again before turning, heading back into the main room. You see him stretch backward, reaching up over his head and back. He’s flexible. You don’t really want that to turn you on but it does anyway. His back is still to you as he pulls his sweater back over his head and then leans down to lace up his shoes and it’s hard _not_ to look at his ass. Somehow you manage to busy yourself with rearranging cups that don’t need to be rearranged until you hear him call, “I’m gonna go check out my house. Thanks again.”

            “You’re welcome!” you shout back as the door closes. You sag against the wall and drag a hand down your face. He’d been living there for what, three weeks? And suddenly your entire sexuality went from perfect black-and-white to all kinds of sloppy, in-between grays. For a while you just thought it was just appreciation for the luck of him, with his looks and his style and the way he moved so fluidly you’d expected his hand to be liquid when you shook it. The way he had complete control over every precise movement he made, the way he tossed trash bags into the bin like they weighed little more than a pillow, the way his shirt hitched up as he opened his window wide to let in the damp Washington air. Now would be a great time for a shower, you decide, though on the way there you hear a knock.

            Dave is at your door, the corner of his lip tilted up guiltily, hands shoved in his pockets and arms pressed to his sides. He’s got shades on now. “The power’s back,” he says, “but not the heat.”

            “You can stay here for a few days.” Your lips are moving but it doesn’t feel like you’re the one speaking. “Until it gets fixed or whatever. I don’t mind.”

            “No man, that’s unnecessary, really, like I have a friend I can stay with and all, I just wanted to let you know and stuff.”

            “But my house is literally less than a minute away from yours,” you-but-not-you points out. “You’d have your clothes, your own shower, all that. No need to pack a suitcase.”

            His expression becomes fairly nonplussed, and you feel a blush rising to your cheeks as the silence stretches. Then he asks, “What, really? No kidding? You’re really going to let an almost complete strange stay at your own home?”

            Rocking back on your heels, you mutter, “Well, when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound quite as neighborly as it’s supposed to be.”

            He laughs at this. “Wow, cool. I promise I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

            His arm brushes against your abdomen as you step to the side and let him in. You can’t take your eyes off the sway of his walk. This’ll be a lot more challenging than you had thought.

+•+

            When you’d entered your house it was still cold as hell (irony or a pun?), but the light you had attempted to turn on last night had finally actually turned on. Lights were fine, fridge was fine, electric blanket was fine, but it was just as cold inside as it was outside. So you’d rushed to the garage to look at the heater thing and saw… well, you didn’t really know. But it was broken. Probably. Your brother was the engineery guy, not you. So you’d grabbed your phone and charger off the table and headed on over to John’s, already tapping out Jade’s number, but then John’s there being so fucking _adorable_ it should be illegal and now you’re going to stay with him and you really hope your heater doesn’t get fixed for a while.


End file.
